‘Timberline Froyo’s’ mascot is a winking man in a trench coat and its buffet pickings are largely (but not completely) inedible. Past the whirling drums of frozen yogurt (plain, chocolate, or swirl), the toppings start with ammunition. Ammunition for firearms. There are a few trays of your standard caliber offerings up at the front, but most people come for the weird and legally gray stuff and it shows in quantity.

Hollow point.

Irradiated lead.

Dragon’s breath shells, which I believe are incendiary.

All this and more can be scooped into the bowl with that dollop of frozen yogurt. In fact, ‘Timberline’ offers a small, sunken lid-like piece of plastic for keeping the toppings away from the yogurt. A sign suggests this is to keep things from getting soggy during transit, but it’s framed as a speech bubble emerging from the mouth of the same trenchcoat-wearing figure. 

An unnecessary flourish, really. Nobody gets this far without knowing something’s up.

‘Colorado is a liberal state, chock-full of repressed liberal hunter-types that sometimes see the fun with which their conservative peers flaunt insane and unnecessary weaponry in states with lax gun laws and decide they’re willing to flex their own moral boundaries in private. Mostly this has resulted in even more insane and even less necessary weaponry, designed by people who, in the day, use their degrees to engineer jet engines or refine highly efficient fuels. 

It’s all still illegal, of course. To make. To sell. And nobody wants to lose their jobs. 

Enter ‘Timberline Froyo,’ which is laid out like any frozen yogurt buffet except that their toppings are largely donated by the same freaks that make exploding guns. ‘Timberline’ keeps its sources anonymous and, due to a quirk of Colorado law, they’re able to sell those donations legally, as long as they do so by weight and as long as they’re sold with a visible portion of frozen yogurt. 

The largest take-away container on offer at ‘Timberline Froyo’ is a ten-gallon bucket, and people leave with them teeming all the time.’

I go for the smallest bowl portion and really consider my options. The by-weight cost of the frozen yogurt at ‘Timberlines’ is outrageous, something they seem to pride themselves on referencing as bait for the FBI or the ATF agents that must lurk about and make purchases of their own from time to time. They talk about the serene life of the cows. Of organic farms and ethical milking and slow-churning and love. 

I move past ammunition (none of it would fit in my gun) and into an area labeled ‘animals, living,’ which indeed features snakes, birds, and insects the colors of which suggest they are exotic, at least, but probably also venomous. 

I don’t think I’m ready for a new pet. 

Past ‘animals, parts’ and ‘drugs’ (prescription and recreational) and ‘furs’ I start to understand that things are set up alphabetically and that it isn’t the chaotic mess that it seems to be. By the end of it, the only thing that has really caught my eye are a pair of magnets so strong that one normally needs a license and a good reason to own them. The thick, plastic encasings to keep them separated don’t add much to the weight, and they make a fun but expensive souvenir from a place I doubt I’ll have the money to visit again. 

A day later I accidentally loose one magnet from the case and it affixes itself to the top of the camper. When I try to use the opposite end of the other to pop it up enough for a fingerhold, the original magnet promptly flips and attaches to its brother, pinching off a piece of skin from my finger about the size of a grain of rice.

I count myself lucky and leave the magnets where they are. 

A place like ‘Timberline Froyo’ could be dangerous for a guy like me. 

-traveler

I don’t pretend to know how waves work generally speaking. I’ve never really needed to know anything more than when to avoid them and how to survive those waves I was initially trying to avoid. Generally speaking (again), I don’t trust the ocean or anything that lives inside it. I don’t trust the way it moves- I don’t trust myself enough to understand what it will do next. Luckily The Wayside doesn’t have a lot of ocean features. There’s a math problem that explains it: the drivable area of the country versus its physical boundary.

I don’t do math either.

‘The Wave Lake’ in Northern California sets off a lot of the same alarms I hear when I see the ocean. It sets off a few others, too, like the alarm for the movement of a spider. The alarm for a particularly gnarly looking mold. It takes me a while to figure out, but I think it has to do with the waves generating so visibly from the center of the lake, as though some massive heart is beating just underneath the surface.

And, in a way, there is.

‘Difficult to reach, and not for the normal reasons, ‘The Wave Lake’ resides deep within a wealthy gated community called ‘Ridgeburn.’Ridgeburn, at its outset, was created with an understanding that the lake at its center (previously Lasso Lake) should be made open to the public. As the development gained the backing of wealthy soon-to-be-residents, many of whom had law degrees and connections in local committees, the actual process for any non-resident citizen hoping to visit Lasso Lake became… arduous. In fact, an op-ed published some years after found that the process was technically impossible, a fact that was quickly quashed by the same powers-that-be that created the rules in the first place.

The shore of Lasso Lake (still its legal name) was tamed and, hoping to impress the snow birds in their summer habitat, it was fitted with a submerged wave machine. The device systematically ground every living fish in the lake to a pulp over the course of a week and the reek of it, the viscera, was so potent in the sun that Ridgeburn opted not to reintroduce wildlife to the area. Rather than alter the wave machine to make it less damaging, they fitted it with a powerful filter.

Lake Lasso now exists like an open wound, wet and lifeless and pulsing. It is wholly dependent upon the machine that collapsed its ecosystem. Without the filter, it becomes a stagnant puddle, its life only larval mosquitoes and rare bacteria.

But it’s interesting to see.

Travelers are advised to just sneak in by foot and linger only an hour to avoid detection. Swimmers are advised to avoid the center. It’s chewed up a small dog in 2023.’

I don’t swim. I mean, I do, generally speaking, but not at ‘The Wave Lake.’ Some combination of my revulsions keep me from wanting to touch the water- from even throwing rocks into it. Nobody is on the beach when I arrive. Nobody is on any of the beaches. The lake laps at the shore like a robot and I leave, mildly sunburned and climbing over fences.

-traveler

‘The Wayside is often accidentally cruel if one allows that cruelty as a byproduct (rather than the aim) qualifies as an accident. When it kills- and it does kill- it usually does so with the same backward grimace a driver wears, having accidentally struck a rabbit on the highway. There is a glimmer of guilt that doesn’t quite and will never manifest as a real action item. The driver will continue to drive (then and likely for the rest of their lives). They have places to be. The rabbit is a sad, but perhaps inevitable casualty in the sort of accident that must happen all the time.

So, too, does the Wayside kill.

‘The Quarter Stealing Arcade’ is an exception to the rule. Founded, as is often the case, without any clear intention, ‘The Quarter Stealing Arcade’ is a labyrinth of rare and beloved game cabinets and pinball tables. The inside is hyper-lit and noisy, a casino atmosphere with a deep popcorn scent. There are no entrance fees. No membership tiers. Patrons are encouraged to engage with the machines, assuming they respect their age and value.

But none of the machines work.

Or.

They all almost do.

Every game in ‘The Quarter Stealing Arcade’ is broken in such a way that it will steal the quarters of its patrons. Some encourage players by counting inserted coins but refusing to move beyond the introductory screen. Others simply fail to acknowledge all monetary input. It took some time for the public to understand that this is true of every single machine in the shop- that the name was not a reference to the addictive nature of arcade gaming in general- that the hardline ‘no refunds’ policy was not due to the fallrate of aging machinery.

No, the owners prefer the machines the way they are. They have gone on record to state that, while some of the machines have been refurbished to near-operational, others have been purchased new and sabotaged in such a way that they will no longer function. This includes four cabinet games and one pinball machine that can be played nowhere else on earth.

The owners refuse to say why they’ve devoted their life to this endeavor, alluding only to the fact that ‘The Quarter Stealing Arcade’ turns a decent profit. Regulars come for the popcorn and claim the experience is equivalent to prodding one’s split lip with their tongue. Sometimes we are simply drawn to familiar pains.’

-an excerpt, Autumn by the Wayside

It’s not a day I’ve been dreading, exactly, this taste-test at ‘The World’s Worst Coffee Corner,’ but when I see just how little of the coffee at ‘Tony’s Café’ customers are able to drink, I worry. The servings are generous, by default. The menu above the counter suggests that larger sizes are available, though I have to assume this is a joke. The sitting area is empty, presumably due to the smell. It’s like someone learned to dry cat urine and has decided to burn it.

Burnt is Tony’s take on bad coffee. This I’ve read. The liquid he produces is paint-black, thick, and oily, served in special cups to combat the acidity of the brew.

But its drinkable- that’s the rule. The two cafes, racing each other to the bottom, both produce something that is legally a beverage. That is technically coffee.

It’s expensive. That’s what gets me. A tourist tax for coffee so bad that it’s a joke. I take a sip and barely hold it down. It seems to shrivel and dry my tongue. My throat tries to reject it but I coax the liquid down and it settles inside me, seeming to fizzle. I worry it will leave a hole in my stomach. It will likely emerge in much the same state it was consumed. I assume I’ll piss fire later, so little of the beverage being worth the effort of my body to process it.

‘It was ‘Joe’s Joe’ first and ‘Tony’s Café’ soon after: two little shops that produced such lackluster coffee in such close proximity that, when a local news article chronicled the journalist’s disgust at leaving one and winding up at the other, a race to the bottom was born. An annual competition sees crowds in the hundreds flocking to Edmonton, Nebraska to taste and be disgusted by the worsening coffee of these establishments.

The shape of the contest has changed over the years. ‘Joe’s Joe’ held a winning streak in the mid-nineties before it was revealed that their recipe had veered into the actually-toxic. ‘Tony’s Café’ held their own when points were still awarded for poor customer experience, employing deeply uncomfortable chrome stools and highly attractive, but cruel, baristas. Bizarre rules have been employed to keep things fair. The coffee must be vegetarian, for instance. It must pour with the viscosity of water. It cannot be served frozen or boiling. It must be served in a paper cup.

‘The World’s Worst Coffee Corner’ recently made The Post’s list of ‘Stupid Places to Spend Thirty Dollars,’ and the recognition has rekindled public interest. Lines are longer, now, which only serves to deepen the experience.’

I buy a very expensive bottle of water from a nearby mom-and-pop and attempt to palate cleanse while my digestive tract complains about the few drops of Tony’s. Then, it’s on to ‘Joe’s Joe’ where I’m given the option of roast in an atmosphere that is breathable, at least, but that smells nothing like coffee. This, it turns out, is because ‘Joe’s’ practices a long-term soaking process which produces a liquid that is hardly tinted amber but painfully, painfully sour and so highly caffeinated that my head begins to throb before the first drink has left my mouth. I pass out and wake up on a couch in the café several minutes later and overhear the men at the counter suggesting I’m the second collapse in the day, that the recipe will need to be tweaked to qualify as edible.

A loyalty card has been placed on my chest, a single punched coffee on my way to the 10^th free.

-traveler